What can I tell you about myself
when you know so much and I so little?
I can’t regard myself as anything
but failure hovering
between sight and not-sight
resembles me, or would if I had an eye for subtleties.
The horizon isn’t interesting:
I like big objects like planes and select friends
based on their near-future prospects.
I think about catastrophic events with detachment
like a wedding guest who doesn’t know why he was invited.
(Divorce is the only time Jesus changed his mind,
assuming he comes again.) Here in the heat of the desert
I fiddle with my daily rocks. I am biding your time. I am adding up the clouds.